


Play Up! Play Up! And Play the Game!

by faerie_wings



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Candles, Destiny, Drabble, Emotional Sex, Fate & Destiny, Gentle Sex, Love, M/M, Moonlight, Poetry, Sex, Symbolism, True Love, fluff?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-20
Updated: 2020-01-20
Packaged: 2021-02-27 12:42:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 688
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22337248
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/faerie_wings/pseuds/faerie_wings
Summary: "It's breathless, what they're doing. It steals the air from their lungs and sets it alight with the fire of passion burning deep within their souls, melding and moulding them together until they are no longer two separate beings, but one consciousness."
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 2
Kudos: 63





	Play Up! Play Up! And Play the Game!

**Author's Note:**

> Title from "Vitaï Lampada" by Henry Newbolt
> 
> Quotes from; "Beauty is brief and violent" by Snehal Vadher, "Vitaï Lampada" by Henry Newbolt, and "Nothing Gold Can Stay" by Robert Frost

It's breathless, what they're doing. It steals the air from their lungs and sets it alight with the fire of passion burning deep within their souls, melding and moulding them together until they are no longer two separate beings, but one consciousness. The rest of the world is faded away - disregarded - the glow of the moon is shielded by the cover of clouds and the hot hearth of the fire dies a pitiful death as the combined bodies create enough heat to warm the room.

Shallow thrusts follow the rhythm of breathless gasps, sweat gathering in the crevices of scars and muscles and ribs and smooth skin, scents mixing and mingling and creating the perfect combination of _Witcher_ and _human_. The musky scent extends beyond typical human senses, extends beyond _Witcher_ senses, lingering and leaving a memory of passion. 

The coupling leaves the impression of _lust_ and _love_ in the very matter of _reality_ \- the perfect counterpoint rhythm between the two steadily continuing its meandering pursuit of pleasure, breathless gasps fill the empty space left between their lips, curling around the sound of skin against skin, weaving between the two bodies made one, joined together, chest-to-chest, mouth-to-mouth. The Witcher’s white hair glows in the candlelight, the strands reflecting the colours like starlight, like the Witcher was more than human, more than monster. 

The amber eyes of the White Wolf gleam with _love_ as the moon returns from behind the cover of clouds, shining fat and full in the night sky, stealing its luminescence from the stars it sits among. The white streaks of moonlight fall across the heated bodies, contrasting, rejecting, _mingling_ with the red-orange smoulder of the hot, sultry flame casting its shadows on the figures. The dark hair of the Witcher’s love spills across the pillow, a point of polarity, revealing two gleaming blue eyes, shut quickly against the pure _emotion_ filling the Witcher’s face.

Shallow thrusts follow the rhythm of _stressed_ and _unstressed_ , a virtual sonnet, written once, recited once, the perfect rhyme a perfect marriage of _lithe_ and suppleto _rugged_ and _powerful_. The thrusts follow the rhythm of _stressed_ and _unstressed_ , the metre, the _cadence_ of their joining _vibrates_ with the assonantal re-telling of the world’s oldest story, stanza after stanza, an in-all-but-name epic, where the couplet, lines of poetry paired in length or rhyme, follows every cliche known to man or monster, like a leitmotif following the imaginings of the composer’s narrative.

The air between them shudders with the _passion_ and _love_ and _lust_ and _warmth_ of the scene, whispering, _“Beauty is brief and violent,”_ believing not the words, for the beauty here is in the _longevity_ , the _eternality_ of the encounter, and it whispers, _“None that hears it dare forget.”_ And it’s breathless, what they’re doing. It steals every word, every gasp, every _single_ exhalation forced from the lungs of Destiny’s playthings, wrapping around and setting them alight with the crucible of passion, melding and moulding and _purifying_ until there are no longer two separate beings, but one consciousness. 

And the perfect counterpoint rhythm begins to fall apart into an unbalanced fight, for the Witcher would always, _always_ win, and there’s a part of the universe that sighs and whispers to itself _“Nothing gold can stay,”_ as the candlelight burns out, leaving only the impression of heat, leaving only the remainder of sweat, of the breathlessness left in the wake of Destiny’s kiss. And it’s true that no matter how much the world would stop and observe as the pure _emotion_ powers the encounter, and so dawn goes down to day, and the world continues turning, and the sun continues burning.

Leaving only the remnant memory of _love_ and _lust_ and _passion_ and _power_ in the gentle smile shown only in relaxed moments and the quieter instances on the road, by the tranquillity so rarely experienced with those blessed with Destiny’s love. And the world whispers to the White Wolf and his lonely bard, _“Play up! play up! and play the game!”_ for Destiny rarely wishes for such a respite, and the game of Destiny is a hard one to play.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! I'm sorry for anyone expecting smut - it's not that, and I doubt I will ever write it! But I hope, nonetheless, that you enjoyed it.


End file.
